


The Head and Her Heart

by orphan_account



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Forgiveness, Future, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Mild Language, Post-Mount Weather, Reapers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 22:42:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3428234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Head controls the Heart, but it is always the Heart that gets the last word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Head and Her Heart

“Bellamy, you’re late. Every three hours means every three hours.”

“Are you done?” He asks, that ever-mocking tone noticeable even through the static of the radio.

Clarke presses her tongue to her teeth. _He’s always got to have the last word, doesn’t he?_ she thinks, sighing in annoyance. She drops the argument, turning back to the more pressing matters at hand.

She’ll give him this one, but when she says three hours, she means three hours.

* * *

 

Mount Weather descends into chaos the exact moment the missile attacks TonDC, so communication between Bellamy and Clarke falls before they get a chance to relay any information on either side.

It’s not until they charge Mount Weather—from the inside and out—and Clarke leads Bellamy and the remaining thirty six back to Camp, that Bellamy finds out what she had done to the village.

She thinks Raven told him, but none of that matters now. They’re both sitting in the empty med bay, and he’s staring at her, horror and hurt clear in his eyes. His eyes had been like that from the very beginning, even before he stepped foot off of the drop ship. She could always see what he felt in his eyes, emotions transparent and boiling just underneath the surface. Too dark, too caring, too heartfelt. He wore his heart on his sleeves and in his eyes and on the tips of his fingers, and Clarke _knew_ that love was weakness and that it would come back to burn him one day.

Today might just be that day.

“You told me you were going to evacuate the village,” he whispers, and something about his voice is so angry and so betrayed that Clarke feels a crack go through her chest.

“I couldn’t.” Her words aren’t a plea, but they sure sound like one. She’s begging for his forgiveness, his understanding, his “It had to be done.” She’s begging for him to trust her again. “I had to let it happen. I needed to protect you, Bellamy. It was the only way.” Bellamy scoffs, surging up and off his perch on the examination desk and pacing around to the other side of the room. He throws a hand into his hair, twisting the strands around his fingers and tugging hard. It looks painful, and Clarke’s heart breaks a little bit more.

“You did it for me, then?”

“I did it for the plan,” she insists, almost desperately. Bellamy laughs this time, and it rings like someone throwing a hammer against the metal door of the drop ship. It’s cold and dry and mocking.

“Let’s cut the bullshit, Clarke. It wasn’t for your goddamn plan. I know it, you know it, even Lexa knows it.” The silence coats them like a fog, heavy and smothering and thick with tension. Clarke bows her head and watches her fingers twist and turn around the sleeves of her jacket. She doesn’t respond. Suddenly, Bellamy is in her face, eyebrows low and nostrils flaring.

“You don’t get to kill for me, Clarke,” he hisses. “You don’t get to massacre a village in my name. You of all people should know that.”

And suddenly Clarke can’t breathe, because Finn’s face is swimming behind her eyelids, his eyes wide in deranged joy and an “I found you” resting on his lips. Her breath rattles in her chest like charred bones. Clarke chokes back her panic and opens her eyes.

When her vision clears, Bellamy is already gone.

* * *

 

Bellamy slowly begins to forgive her over time. They don’t talk much, and some days he hardly even looks at her, but it’s getting better, easier.

Every morning Clarke wakes up hoping that today will be the day she gets her best friend, her partner, her bleeding heart back. Every day she scolds herself for being so weak.

 _Stop it._ She tells herself in the recesses of her mind. _You have a camp to lead. You don’t have time to grovel and pine._ But her heart drags her out of the tent and into the mess hall, towards him like a magnet until she’s hovering in his peripheral vision.

For a month he hadn’t acknowledged her standing there. For even longer she was just a cobweb fluttering on his shoulder, frail and perishable and transparent. But something must have changed because today he looks at her, and his eyes are still as hard as ever, but she sees the forgiveness in them, even if he doesn’t understand why.

She rushes to him, wrapping her arms around his shoulders while her brain groans at her for making a scene in front of the camp.

Clarke doesn’t care, though. “I’m so sorry,” she breathes into his neck. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” he whispers back, and it’s not the forgiveness she’s looking for, but it’s a start.

* * *

 

They’re out in the woods right now, just the two of them. They’d been assigned to the same hunting party in the past, and back then the buffer of other humans had been welcome. Now, with nothing but the birds to distract them, Clarke wonders when she had become so weak, so soft, so reliant on his mood and emotions and feelings. She wonders if she’ll ever breathe easy with him by her side again.

But he looks at her, and there’s the smallest hint of a smile, or reassurance, or _something_ on his face, and the pressure on her chest gets a little bit lighter.

* * *

 

Clarke slams her back against the rough wood of the tree, gasping for breath as she tries to hide behind its thick trunk. She presses a hand to her neck, feels herself breathe in and out, in and out. Pressing two fingers to her pulse, Clarke sighs in relief at the galloping kicks of her heart against her finger. She needed to know that she was alive, that her heart was still beating.

Her heart.

She spins, making her way around the tree and scanning the woods, her eyes wide and desperate. Where is Bellamy?

They’d been running from reapers, a pack of them, and Bellamy was _right behind heroh god where did he go?_ Was he hurt? Was he still alive?

Tears well up in Clarke’s eyes, but her brain fights them down. _Think_ , it demands. _Think, think, think._

She thinks. She thinks and she thinks and she thinks but for the life of her she couldn’t remember when she had lost track of Bellamy’s steady footfalls. Had something happened to him? Was he even alive? Clarke trips over a root as she paces back and forth in worry.

And then she sees him.

He has just surpassed the apex of the hill, weaving in an out of trees and towards her. He’s about a hundred meters away, and he could be at her side in less than half a minute.

It’s been half a minute. Why is he going so slowly? Clarke narrows her eyes, and then gasps.

There’s an arrow lodged in his shoulder. As he gets closer and closer, she can see the rivulets of blood slipping down his arm. He’s almost to her, and only a stretch of land separates them, and Clarke begins to walk towards him in order to help him along.

But a roar sounds off into the distance, loud, hungry, and human. Her mind registers the sound just as reapers appear on the horizon like a swarm of hornets, running towards Bellamy in a dead sprint even while he hobbles closer and closer to her.

They’re close. They’re too close. They’ll kill him, and if she doesn’t leave now they’ll kill her too.

 _Go_ , her brain insists. _You have to leave him behind. Don’t let your emotions control you. Love is weakness, and you have to leave right_ now _._

Clarke doesn’t leave, though. She doesn’t even turn around. His eyes catch hers, and suddenly she’s running, hurdling through branches and shrubs.

 _No!_ Her head screams. _Turn back!_ But Clarke doesn’t hear it, for the roar of the blood rushing underneath her skin, pumping through her veins and thundering against her chest, grows louder and louder, and her heart beats an insistent _no, no, no, no_ against her throat _._ She runs to the beat of it, and the tune changes, suddenly falling more desperate.

 _Go,_ it insists. _Go, go, go._ She does. She sprints to Bellamy’s side and throws his arm over her shoulder before dragging him along and stumbling off into the trees.

“Just go Clarke,” Bellamy moans, his feet tripping over the soft dirt. Clarke shakes her head frantically.

“No,” she insists. “No, not without you.” She thinks she hears him huff in annoyance, but he picks up his pace, and together they rush farther into the woods.

 _There’s a bunker nearby_ , Clarke’s brain reminds her _. You can hide there and tend to his wound. You can—_

Her heart roars once again, and Clarke pushes onward with its insistent _go, go, go._

Bellamy turns his head as they run. “We’re almost there,” he murmurs, and his voice spurs Clarke into pumping her legs faster, harder, until she’s practically lugging Bellamy across her back as she runs.

They finally reach the bunker, the one with the colored pencils and the toys and the bed, and Clarke opens the hatch. She helps Bellamy down and then follows him, right as the Reapers break through the wall of trees. She locks the door shut and they begin to pound at the door mere seconds later, but it holds and they’re finally safe.

She turns to Bellamy, and he’s already sitting on the bed, shirt off and arm twisted around to examine the arrow still protruding from his shoulder. Clark immediately gets to work, pressing herself between his legs and wrapping a bandage tightly around the wound after she’s pulled the arrowhead out. Bellamy watches her, his dark eyes unwavering.

“You came back for me,” he says finally, and there’s question in his tone. “You shouldn’t have.” He pauses as Clarke finishes up with tying the bandages. “Why did you?” For the first time since she stepped foot in that bunker, Clarke meets Bellamy’s eyes. She swallows, thickly, before turning back to his arm.

“You’d do anything for your sister. That’s who you are.” Her voice is rough, but she keeps speaking. “I would do anything for the people I care about. I guess that’s who I am now.” Clarke can feel Bellamy’s stare on her, but she doesn’t match his gaze until he places his hand on her shoulder.

“You’re right,” he responds, watching her eyes as she blinks back tears. “I would do anything.” Then he leans forward, pressing a soft kiss right between her eyebrows. Clarke melts into his touch.

“Not just for my sister, though,” he murmurs against her forehead, and it’s just the forgiveness that Clarke has been seeking. She smiles, laughing a bit to hide her sob as she presses her face into his cheek.

The Head may control everything. It may be the leader, the conqueror, the ruler, but it is the Heart that always gets the last word.


End file.
